The keeper's keeper
by SciFiDVM
Summary: "This was no surprise to him, for he saw this coming the moment, years ago, when the younger agent asked him to 'snap her up'." The progression of Mary and Marshall's relationship, as witnessed by Stan.
1. Can we keep her?

Title: The keeper's keeper

Author: SciFIDVM

Fandom: In Plain Sight

Pairings: Mary/Marshall

Rating: PG 13 for the usual language

Summary: "This was no surprise to him, for he saw this coming the moment, years ago, when the younger agent asked him to 'snap her up'."

**Author's note: I have been avoiding writing any fic lately, as I was afraid that the difference in style between this and my "work writing" might cause the latter to suffer. Turns out that channeling Marshall actually improves my scientific writing. Go figure. Updates may be a bit slow for the next week or two - big work deadlines. But after Halloween it's smooth sailing.**

Stan McQueen could finally rock back in his chair and relax. The new witnesses were settled, and all his agents had returned safely. He had been rather concerned for marshal Marshall, after being stuck with that FTF agent for the transfer. The poor kid's name still made the corners of his mouth peak slightly, but he was a good agent. It was a shame that the young man's enthusiasm and personality made him seem more green than he was, both by experience and pedigree. Finding him a new partner had been difficult since Kowalski retired the end of last month. Most agents seemed to interpret his sensitivity as a weakness, and preferred to partner up with other more alpha types. They didn't realize what an asset that sensitivity could be with frightened or traumatized witnesses, and were surprised at how good his stats usually were. Marshall was probably the cleverest guy on the team, but his submissive personality tended to let that fact be overshadowed. There had been occasional flickers of appropriately channeled aggression when the right stimulus was present, but generally, the lanky figure seemed about as threatening as a doily. Stan knew he needed to find the kid another partner, but finding somebody that could compliment his particular skill set was proving more difficult than he thought. What kind of guy is going to have a personality that tolerates his level of sensitivity, recognizes its utility, yet has the cajones to kick ass enough for the both of them, or the ability to bring out the kick ass in marshal Marshall?

Stan was snapped out of attempting to picture what such a man would look like by an abrupt "hrmph" and shuffling of paperwork from the blonde agent temporarily borrowed from the fugitive task force. He noticed Marshall give her a look, attempting to impart patience via telepathy. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he just sighed. A few moments later, both agents stood up from their desks. Marshall looked at Stan and gestured to the corner of the office, indicating that he wanted to speak privately. The blonde started to pace anxiously. Stan had spoken to her unit commander after she had been assigned to assist Marshall in the relocation of Henry and Claudia. He always wanted to know what kinds of situations his agents were being put in. Based on the reports of her superior and Marshall's initial complaints over the phone, he had his doubts as to whether or not Mann would survive the encounter. When a task force supervisor chooses to focus more on the disciplinary and interpersonal problems of a marshal than the fact that said marshal has the highest collar rate of anyone in the tri-state area, you have to take the concerns seriously. Mary Shannon was the definition of an administrative nightmare. When the call ended with, "you wouldn't happen to want to take her off our hands, would ya?" he had instantly regretted putting one of his agents in such a position. Marshall looked around the room and cleared his throat. Stan steeled himself for what would undoubtedly be a very well thought out and verbose diatribe on the permanent damage the younger agent had suffered from being paired with the volatile ball-buster.

"Marshall, I know what you're about to say, and I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do, but it's over now. She'll be on a plane back to Jersey by morning, and I promise that you'll never have to work with her again."

"See Stan, that's the thing…"

Maybe he didn't know where this was going. Because there is no way this conversation is about to take the kind of turn that that statement usually indicates. The topic of conversation was now circling the room, trying very hard to make it seem like she was paying attention to anything but their conversation.

"I know it sounds crazy, but it worked."

"You mean you barely got the witnesses here without any friendly fire incidents. Yeah, you got the job done."

"No. Her, as a Wit Sec inspector. Us, working together. It worked"

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little confused here. I thought you just said that you enjoyed working with the agent that Jersey has been trying to pawn off on any other department for the last six months."

"Stan, I'm telling you, snap her up."

"Is this some kind of Stockholm Syndrome?"

"I need a new partner. She'll be my responsibility. You won't regret it."

"Did she say this is what she wants?"

"Not in so many words, but the topic was breached and I believe that she is amenable to it."

"I'll make some calls." What had he just gotten himself into?

At that, she looked over at them. Marshall smiled genuinely and shot her a thumbs-up.

She gave an overly saccharine smile and thumbs up, which then quickly became a scowl and a different hand gesture that involved only a single finger.

He shot her a whimsical smile and pointed, as if to say "oh you silly goose".

She rolled her eyes at him in annoyance, turned away, and sat back down at her desk with the remaining paperwork.

From where he was standing, Stan could just barely make out the soft smile that played across her face, hidden almost entirely by a wall of loose blond hair. He figured that no one was supposed to actually see that smile, and made no outward comment. Marshall, on the other hand, remained rooted to the same spot, with a giant goofy grin plastered across his face. He looked like a child that had just been given a puppy of their very own. Stan realized that he would likely never know what had happened between the two agents during the relocation to alter their dynamics so drastically. "Inspector, don't you have work to do?" He asked. Marshal scrambled back to his desk and quickly busied himself, intermittently looking up to steal an excited glance at his new partner. Stan noticed the glances and wondered if his inspector could have a bit of a crush on the new addition. Mary Shannon was not the type of woman to tolerate a crush. If present, it would likely prove to be self-limiting rather quickly.

To say that Stan questioned his decision to accept marshal Shannon's transfer during her first week in Albuquerque is like saying that the surface of the sun is a bit warm. She was like a wrecking ball inside a tornado, pushed on by a hurricane. She snapped at everyone, accepted help from no one. The first order of business had been rearranging the desks. No permission was sought and no other agents consulted. Marshall silently played along, and they eventually settled on a configuration that pleased them both. The new seating arrangement did little to improve her mood. Everything in the office, from stale coffee, to a paper jam in the copier, to the dwindling supply of staples was a personal affront and worthy of a series of profane expletives that would make a sailor blush. An intern made the mistake of bringing her a diet soda instead of the regular she had demanded, and he ended up wearing it. Her new partner sat by quietly, taking it all in. Marshall had not escaped the rants either. His life, limbs, and genitals had been threatened in ways Stan had never previously even contemplated, should one more trivial fact escape his mouth. Stan had no idea what it was like seeing witnesses with her outside the building, but he had a hard time imagining that her personality altered much due to location. He just felt fortunate that no witnesses had complained yet. It was a wonder that Marshall hadn't come to him regretting his previous request. It was bound to happen soon. Stan could not imagine a personality type more wrong for a partnership with Marshall Mann than this Mary Shannon.

It was her eighth day in Albuquerque and she was in as foul a mood that morning as Stan had ever seen. She was in the middle of a tirade, screaming and hand gesturing wildly at a visiting agent that had just deposited a new witness in the conference room. Everything from his competence to his parentage seemed to be in question. Marshall approached her quietly from behind with a freshly poured cup of coffee. He had to exert some effort to not end up smacked by her wild gesticulations, but simply stood slightly behind her and off to the side. He never interrupted her, and it seemed like she was unaware of his presence. Then in a beautifully choreographed move, he extended the mug of warm caffeine just as a violent hand gesture brought her left hand into its proximity. Without looking, she instinctively sensed its presence and took the cup without a word or sign of acknowledgement. There was a brief pause in her insults as she stopped to drink. The coffee was obviously prepared to her liking, because she finished the entire mug.

"You can go now." She shot a look at the visitor. "Unless there's another witness here you would like to try to get killed." The statement followed him out the door. She grumbled "Jesus" under her breath and gave her partner an exasperated look before leading him into the conference room.

Marshall had just read the situation and appropriately diffused her. While no gratitude was expressed, she didn't bite his head off either. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear those two are actually partners." Stan remarked quietly, to no one in particular.


	2. Two months, max

The Keeper's Keeper

Chapter 2 – Two months, max.

**A/N: This one is a bit long. The muses deemed it necessary. More to come.  
**

There seemed to be a general lull in witness drama, Stan noted, especially for this time of year. Winter typically brought the crazies to Albuquerque. As temperatures fell elsewhere in the country, New Mexico's climate remained much more hospitable for all things covert and stalker-y. Stake-outs in cars and abandoned buildings with no heat are less problematic when your appendages aren't frost bitten, and having to remove snow building up on windows to keep your target in sight becomes conspicuous. No snow to preserve footprints, tire tread impressions, or body drag marks. The predators in the desert were hungrier than normal, but it wasn't so cold that they wouldn't come out into the open. Perfect for body disposal. Come winter, hit-men in the northeast just love to hear that a witness has been spotted in Albuquerque. Add that to the fact that the holidays tend to find witnesses yearning to reach out to family and old friends, and it's usually a recipe for disaster.

When the level of witness incidents dropped drastically during the first month Mary Shannon had joined the team in Albuquerque, Stan assumed it was a lucky coincidence. When it stayed just as low for the next two months, he started to wonder if Marshall had been onto something. He supposed the witnesses were more afraid of incurring her wrath than that of the people hunting them.

It was mid-December and the office was quietly in the midst of attempting to finish up delinquent paperwork before a vast number of personnel cashed in their vacation time. Stan needed a distraction, and watching the interplay between his newest set of partners rarely failed to provide some kind of entertainment. He soon noticed that every time Mary would get up to submit a form, make a photocopy, or refill her coffee, she slyly slipped a form or two from her to do pile onto Marshall's. He acted as if he didn't notice, and she seemed smug and content. When she walked into the women's restroom, he simply removed the small stack of papers and slipped them back into her pile at the bottom. He was whistling a Christmas carol when she returned. She was so busy threatening to "jingle _his_ bells" if he didn't "shut his hole" that she didn't notice that her to do pile had increased in size. The stealth redistribution of forms continued for another hour or so before she came to the section of the pile that had been returned to her.

"You sneaky little fruit cake." She marveled in disbelief.

His head sprang up from his paperwork. "Did you know that fruit cake was first developed by the ancient Romans and that the earliest recipes included pomegranate, pine nuts, and raisins? They were typically used as a dessert or birthday cake. The association of fruit cakes with the Christmas holiday didn't happen until well onto the Middle Ages."

"Oh my God. When you eat fruit cake, is it considered cannibalism?"

"Heh…" He scowled back at her.

She glowered and deliberately took a few of her unfinished forms and tossed them onto Marshall's desk, with him watching. He flippantly tossed them back over onto her desk. She picked them up, walked around her desk so that she was standing in front of his, and dropped them on top of the form he was writing on. He took the forms, stood up, walked around his desk and stopped right in front of her so that they were staring each other down. Without breaking eye contact, he extended his arm sideways and dropped them on her desk.

Stan and a few others were watching to see what her next move would be. He could not believe that Marshall was standing up to her this assertively. Then he noticed the very subtle smile attempting to pull at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't mad. He was testing her. He wanted to see what she'd do if he ever pushed back. How far would she go? Mary's hand shot to her holster. _Holy shit, she was going to shoot him! _Marshall registered the movement and attempted to recoil as much as the desks would allow. Stan burst out of his office and yelled "Gun!"

"Um, phone?" She countered, slowly holding up her vibrating cell phone. Apparently it had been clipped to her belt right next to her holster. She looked at them like they were all moderately retarded.

"Never mind then." Stan announced and tried to nonchalantly return to his office.

"You all thought I was going to shoot him." It was part question, part statement. But in her eyes it was all glee.

"Are you going to answer that?" Marshall asked, looking sheepishly at the phone.

"I'd never shoot you in the office. Too many witnesses, and Christ, could you imagine the paperwork." She flipped open the cell phone.

"I'm glad to know that a bevy of paperwork is all that keeps my homicidal partner from mowing me down in a public place." He expected a witty remark, but then he realized that she was ignoring him for the conversation on the phone.

"Stop. Listen. Stop crying. Just block the door the best you can. Stay right there. I'll be there as fast as possible." She spoke into the phone.

Upon noting the stress in her voice, Marshall motioned for Stan to rejoin them.

"It's the Myers kids. Someone's found them and got them trapped in the house. " She announced.

"Go." Stan advised. "I'll have the parents brought in immediately and get local PD to provide some back-up. If you need anything else, call me from the road."

They were automatically and simultaneously checking their guns and ankle holsters as he spoke. "Thanks Stan." Marshall said as he grabbed his keys from the drawer of his desk. As they began to stride towards the door, she shot him a look. He tossed the keys to her and she caught them mid-air.

Stan started dialing numbers on his phone immediately, as he watched them leave. This was going to be their first time handling a legitimate threat and going in hot as partners. If the earlier standoff over a few pieces of paperwork was any indicator, Stan felt a little bad for the attacker. But he was going after a pair of kids. Let Mary have him. He realized that he was more than a little disappointed that he wouldn't get to see it go down. He had been told that the blonde could brawl with the best of them, and both partners were extraordinary marksmen. This mook didn't have a chance… so long as they didn't kill each other on the way there.

Four hours later, Mr. Meyers was pacing around the conference room. Mrs. Myers sat quietly, alternating between wringing her hands and staring blankly at the wall. Both jumped and twitched any time a phone rang or someone entered the office.

Formerly Tim and Gail Mileski, the pair and their two tweenaged children, Crystal and Christopher, had been a happy middle class family in Chicago. Unfortunately, daddy really liked the ponies. When the ponies didn't like him back, he opted for some alternative financial assistance and ended up indebted to a loan shark called Frankie Smalls. Smalls had some strong connections to a certain regional mafia family. Not being able to make good on a loan from Smalls was no small deal. A random FBI raid on Smalls's apartment happened to take place while Mileski was there pleading for a little more time to make his payments. The two goons that had been working Tim over were captured, but Smalls himself managed to escape the apartment and evade the FBI. At that time, Mileski began to fully grasp the situation he was in and gladly agreed to testify against the loan shark and low level Masucci family goons that had been present on more than one of their transactions. The whole family had been whisked away to Albuquerque a little under a year ago and had not had any notable trouble until today.

The office door opened and two adolescents with brown hair and tear stained faces bolted for their parents. Marshall held the door open, and Mary silently passed under his outstretched arm and through the door. Stan quickly took in the state of his inspectors. Mary's hair was disheveled, her U.S. Marshals windbreaker had a few gouges in it, and the knees of her jeans were abraded away, along with at least the first few layers of skin underneath. Marshall had the beginnings of a decent bruise forming on his left cheekbone, his clothing also showed signs of a struggle, and the knuckles on his right hand were bloodied.

"Mom! I was so scared." The young girl exclaimed.

"It's ok sweetheart." Her mom replied, her voice still trembling. "Can you tell us what happened?"

She seemed eager to tell her story. "I saw the man coming up the sidewalk towards the door. He looked mean and creepy, so I made Christopher come upstairs with me. We were barely up the stairs when I heard him kick in the door. We hid in your bathroom and locked the door. I had grabbed the cordless phone on the way and called Mary. It was so scary. We tried to be so quiet, but he found us anyway. He broke down the door and then he grabbed us and started dragging us out of the house."

"I bit him and almost got away." The slightly younger boy added proudly.

"What did he want with them? Who was he?" The mother was horror-struck.

"It appears that the man was a member of the Masucci family." Marshall began. "He likely was under orders to take the children and use them as collateral to ensure that you didn't testify."

"What would have happened to them?" Mr. Myers asked

"Look," Mary interjected, "it was going to be bad. They're the mob. They're not the kittens rainbows, and unicorns fun brigade. But it's over now. They're safe. You're safe. The only thing that isn't safe are my plans for this weekend, because I'll be here the whole damn time doing the paperwork to move you all to a fantastic new city of the Department of Justice's choosing."

They all now seemed less skittish, but the mention of relocation had them quite somber.

"Before we, and by 'we' I mean 'I', go through the extensive paperwork to relocate you and the government has to cough up a sizeable chunk of change to do so, why don't you tell us how they found you. If we don't identify the leak they'll just find you again." Mary stopped. The family looked horrified and defensive. "Look, I'm not saying that you're all illiterate morons, but the MOU is pretty specific about contacting any one from your past life, and these people found you some how. So, somewhere along the line, one of you fu…"

Marshall abruptly cut her off, "I think what my partner is trying to say, is that we need to identify how you were located. It may have been something accidental. Have you seen anyone that might have recognized you from your old life?" It was obvious that they were all thoroughly considering any possible slip ups or encounters. Then the little girl's face dropped a bit, but she said nothing. "Crystal, is there anything that you can remember. It's very important that you tell us, even if you think it's nothing."

"Last month was Aunt Linda's birthday. I sent her a card, but it's ok. I didn't put our address on it. I just put hers on it and put it in the mailbox."

Mary looked over to Marshall and quietly added, "Like I was saying. One of them fucked up."

Marshall brought the palm of his hand to his forehead. "Aunt Linda?" He asked.

"She's not their real aunt." Tim answered.

Gail continued, "She was my best friend from college. We moved to the big city together after. She practically raised the kids with me. I can't believe she would be involved in this."

"She probably isn't involved directly. Even though there was no return address on the envelope, there would still be an Albuquerque post mark." Marshall added calmly.

"You two were such bosom buddies, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that watching her mail and tapping her phone might lead them to you." Mary finished.

There was shock and confusion for a few minutes, then the process of retrieving some personal belongings and relocating the family began. At one point, while Mary was busy across the office, Stan pulled Marshall aside. "How'd it go?" he asked quietly.

His answer came from across the room instead. "Would have gone a lot better if Nancy over there didn't hit like a little girl."

"How did she…" Stan questioned, amazed that anyone could have heard his previous question clear across the office.

With his back towards her and a hand around his mouth, Marshall whispered, "Ears like a bat…"

They both chuckled silently. "Who took down the bad guy?" Stan asked.

"She did. Both of them. Didn't fire a shot." Marshall looked prouder than if he had just announced that he had single handedly taken down two mafia hit men.

"Two?"

"The attacker in the house and the getaway driver in the van parked next door."

"Did either one of them come out of it looking worse than you?" Stan wondered out loud.

Marshall looked giddy as he whispered, "Both." He nearly giggled.

"Hit me with the highlights." Stan requested. If he couldn't make it to the game, at least he could watch it on Sports Center.

"She was leading the attacker out of the house in cuffs. I was a couple yards behind with the kids. As I get to the porch, I see a glimmer in the front seat of the van parked next door. It was a gun. The guy inside was aiming at Mary and the hit man. I sent the kids back into the house and took off. Yelled for her to get down, but it was too late. I barely knocked her out of the way of the bullet. I think it grazed her jacket."

Stan tried not to show his surprise. Not an hour earlier he had honestly feared that she was going to shoot him over paperwork, then he goes and nearly takes a bullet for her without a second thought.

"But anyway, all three of us ended up on the ground. The gunman came out of the van to get a better shot. Big mistake. She took off at the guy and somehow disarmed and disabled him. I was a little busy trying to regain control of the guy on the ground with me. He had landed on top of me and somehow got his hands in front of him. He was making a play for my gun and he landed a lucky shot." Marshall indicated the growing bruise on his face. "The edges of my vision were just coming back into focus after that hit, and the next thing I know, she is standing over us and cracked his skull with the butt of her glock."

The look in his face as he finished the story was telling. _Crap. He's definitely got a crush now. Well, she liked him enough to not let him die, so maybe she'll let him down easy or ignore it until it blows over. I give it another 2 months, max._ Stan considered.

"Would you two lovebirds stop looking at gay porn on the internet over there, or whatever it is you're doing. Some of us are actually trying to get our jobs done."

Marshall trotted over to her side, and they readied the family for the move to the temporary safe house. She naturally took point as they lead the family out the door towards the garage, and he fell back and watchfully brought up the rear, just as naturally.

_Two months, max._ Stan reminded himself. They were actually working out well together, and he loathed the thought of having to try to re-partner either one of them.

**TBC...**


	3. I want your pickle

It was late March, and spring was beginning in Albuquerque. The weather was beautiful, the birds were singing, and critical witness incidents were at an all-time low. In the three months since the Myers breach, there had only been minor problems with witnesses at home. There was one crisis during a trial that narrowly avoided a shoot-out. His team turned in all the paperwork on time – 90% of it was in Marshall's handwriting, and on paper the encounter seemed straight forward and easily managed. It was no small shock to Stan when reports from other law enforcement agents that had been at the Baltimore courthouse that day began to filter back to him. They included terms like "impressive", "skillful", and "bad ass". The two things everyone seemed to agree on where that: one – these partners could get the job done seamlessly, and two – the string of profanity and insults that came out of the female's mouth afterwards was like nothing anyone had ever heard.

Had Marshall ever truly believed that he could "be responsible for her"? Then who did that leave as responsible for Marshall, because being in charge of Mary was beyond a full time job. Stan figured that it was his duty as chief inspector to look out for him, but the kid was not making it easy. _Two months, max_ may have been optimistic. He wasn't sure if Mary had figured out what was going on yet, but he was afraid of what might happen when she did. They had a rapport going as partners and seemed to be starting to trust each other. You didn't have to be a therapist to see that Mary had some issues, and Stan feared that Marshall's feelings might be taken as a violation of her trust. Maybe after a few more mornings like the one a few weeks ago would knock some sense into him. She had strolled in a few minutes late and openly started commenting on the "cowboy" she had picked up at the bar the night before, and the "rodeo" they'd had back at his place. Marshall had attempted to act unphased by the conversation, but Stan could tell he was struggling internally.

The pair in question strode back into the office around noon, carrying grease laden white paper bags. Marshall tossed one to Stan as they walked over to Mary's desk.

"Vinny's?" Stan asked, eyeing the bag.

"Of course. Cheesesteak, no mushrooms, right?" Marshall asked.

"You're the man, Mann." He responded and dug into the bag.

Mary and Marshall sat on opposite sides of her desk. They chatted amicably and intermittently stole each other's french fries. Then Mary reached for his pickle spear, and he slapped her hand away.

She looked slightly taken aback, then reached for it again. Again her hand was slapped away. "Just hand it over. You know you're not even going to eat it."

"Would it kill you to ask?" He questioned and held the gherkin away from her.

A wicked grin overtook her face. "Marshall," She cried breathily, "I want your pickle."

His face became beat red and Stan had to stifle a laugh. Marshall had stepped right into this one.

Mary continued seductively and loudly, "Your salty dill spear, I can taste it in my mouth. I need you to give it to me. Now! Ooohhhh…"

He handed it over, and she took it excitedly. "That was unnecessary." He grumbled.

She made sure to take her time eating it, moaning in satisfaction the entire time.

"Unnecessary." He muttered again as he got up to throw their trash away and return to his own desk.

They worked quietly for a while, then he looked at her cautiously and asked, "Do you know what today is?"

"Tuesday?"

"Actually it's Wednesday." He seemed a little caught off guard.

"Really? Huh. That explains a lot." She pondered.

"But that's not what I meant." He continued, "Did you realize that today is exactly six months from the day we started working together? It's our six month anniversary!"

"You have got to be freaking kidding." She said flatly. "I apparently can't even remember what day of the week it is without my steno pad and you expect me to remember the date I first got saddled with you as a partner, let alone care?"

He looked slightly crestfallen.

She continued, "I don't think you could be a bigger girl if you tried. How do you propose we celebrate this most holy of holidays? We could braid each other's hair, sing Kumbayah, and give each other mani/pedis while dancing to our favorite Britney Spears album. Christ."

"Your idea has… merit… but I was thinking something more like going and getting a beer when we finish up here. All this time and we've never hung out outside of work."

"My god. You're actually serious."

"It's an important milestone. We should do something to commemorate the occasion." He in formed.

"You want to commemorate the occasion? Why don't you reach into that big vagina of yours and see if you can pull out a pair of testicles."

After a moment of shocked silence he looked to Stan. "How do I respond to that?"

"Honestly Marshall? A six month partner anniversary? I'm tempted to agree with Mary."

He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. He answered the phone and it hadn't been long before he was massaging his temples impatiently. He looked over at Mary, rolled his eyes, and mouthed something that Stan didn't quite catch. When the call finally ended about five minutes later without Marshall getting a whole sentence in, they grabbed their things and headed out the door.

"Trouble?" Stan asked.

"Sandra Fischer just caught her husband cheating on her with the babysitter." Marshall answered.

Mary added, "Would be way more interesting if Mrs. Fischer had been the one cheating with the babysitter. This is just going to be a lot of whiney woe-is-me bullshit." And with that they left the building.

They returned, looking drained, around 5:30 and Mary was talking into her cell agitatedly. "No, Mom. I'm in New Mexico. There is nothing I can do." She tried banging her head against a wall, but it didn't appear to help. "New Jersey and New Mexico are _not_ actually anywhere near each other." Pause. "Fine. I'll take care of this some how. You just go have another drink." She walked over to the sink in the kitchenette, turned on the tap, and held the phone near the water. "What's that Mom? I can't hear you. I'm going through a tunnel. Bye." And she hung up.

Marshall gave her a look, full of concern.

"I have to go find a Western Union and send some money so my little sister can bail herself out of jail. Then I might just take you up on that beer. I need a damn drink after all this touchy feely crap."

Marshall's eyes lit up and Stan couldn't help but compare him to an excited little puppy.

"But you're paying and don't expect me to put out." She informed him.

They quickly gathered up their things and headed out of the office. Stan had no idea how them hanging out together would end, but if the last six months had taught him anything, it was that whatever happens will be hilarious to watch.


	4. The perfect shot

The keeper's keeper

Ch. 4 - The perfect shot

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone for the kind reviews. There is no greater compliment than when the writers whose work inspired me to write for a particular fandom approve of my contributions. This past week has been hell at work and every review in mt inbox totally brightened my day. This chapter is a little bit more serious than the past couple, but there are a few serious milestones in a partnership that they'll have to go through and I figured they should be given all the brevity that Mary and Marshall would allow (so obviously it's not that much...).**

It had taken only five minutes for word to reach Stan that his inspectors had been involved in a shoot-out. The APD officer that made the call quickly added that neither of the Marshals were injured and that they had asked him to relay the message "the package was delivered safely". One of the assailants had taken two to the chest, and while he was being rushed to the hospital, it was unlikely that he would survive. Stan had thanked the officer and said that they could expect him on site within fifteen minutes. He quickly gathered his wallet, gun, and badge and then grabbed his jacket purely, for decorum. The early October temperatures had not yet dipped to a point where outerwear was necessary. He was pulling out of the parking structure less than three minutes later.

Since taking the job as Chief Inspector, he often missed being out in the field. However, this was not a reason he wanted to be escaping the office on a sunny day. As the supervisor of an inspector that had been involved in what would likely become a fatal shooting, no matter how justified, there would be an investigation and it was his duty to be there.

As he drove towards the suburban neighborhood where the shooting had taken place, he realized that no one had specified which inspector made the shot. He suspected it would be the blonde. Mary was the more aggressive of the pair and usually preferred the offensive point position. Marshall was just the opposite, calm and calculating, preferring to lead the defense from a tactically superior rear position. They complimented each other that way, Stan had been surprised. There were many areas of their partnership where they complimented each other better than he ever would have expected. Their technical performance together as a team was already above average, but he still had concerns about them.

Stan merged the large SUV onto the highway and began to ponder exactly what separated those really great partnerships from the rest. It all boiled down to absolute trust. You have to trust your partner's abilities, trust their devotion to the mission or goal, and trust that they trust you. He questioned whether Mary and Marshall even had the basic ability to trust anyone that way. And that kind of trust certainly wasn't something that developed doing paperwork and routine witness visits 9-5, five days a week. Great partners were best friends, family. They were god parents to each other's kids, knew the other's favorite beer and always had a six pack on hand, had standing invitations to each other's house for Wednesday night poker and Saturday afternoon barbeques. They knew each other better than their spouses. Again, he just wasn't sure that these kids could get to that point of intimacy.

Three exits past where he'd entered the highway, Stan took the exit ramp and headed east. Mary and Marshall had now been partners for almost a year now. Since the first time they had gone out for a beer about five months earlier, Stan had only heard mention of a handful of other times they went for a drink after work. Apparently the outings usually ended in a witness emergency or Mary finding herself a "cowboy", and Marshall picking up the tab. It was not exactly the team bonding experiences typical of most new partners. On the bright side, it did seem to curtail Marshall's little crush. That, or he was getting better about hiding it. Either way was an improvement as far as Stan was concerned.

He cautiously maneuvered through the suburban sprawl and rounded a well-manicured corner lot. Chaos greeted him. A dozen police cruisers with flashing lights lined the street. An ambulance and a fire rescue truck mixed with a handful of dark colored government issued SUVs. The front of the previously picturesque ranch home was riddled with bullet holes and two windows were shattered. People and yellow tape were everywhere. Stan flashed his credentials at the perimeter and was allowed to pull up to the house. He quickly spotted Mary amongst the mayhem. She was leaning against the side of the ambulance, hand on hip, chatting with one of the paramedics. Her stance gave Stan a clear view of the holster on her belt, which still contained it's Glock. Mary had not been forced to temporarily surrender her weapon. He stepped out of the SUV and realized that Marshall must have been the shooter. Mary noticed his arrival and immediately approached him.

"Where's Marshall?" Stan asked.

"They're debriefing him now. It was a clean shoot. Might say we kinda had justification." She motioned towards the damaged home exterior.

"What happened?"

"Carla called earlier today. Said she'd seen the same odd car in the neighborhood a couple times the past few days. We were here doing a risk assessment and she saw the car out the window. Single driver opened fire with something large caliber and semi-automatic. I had Carla pinned beneath me for cover. Then the guy busted down the front door, probably wanted confirmation of the kill. Doofus took his sweet time, but tapped him twice in the chest. Carla and I got out the back as the cavalry arrived."

"Nothing like a drive-by shooting to get the neighborhood watch in a huff." He smiled.

"Their timing was impeccable, as usual. Just once I'd like to see reinforcements get here _before_ we've done all their work for them." She grumbled.

"And let someone else have all the fun?"

She tilted her head, debating the point, then smiled and nodded slightly in agreement.

"Where's Carla?" Stan asked.

"She's in the ambulance." Off a questioning look from Stan, she continued, "She's fine. It just seemed like the most defensible place to keep her until Marshall's cleared to help me get her to the airport. The immediate threat is neutralized, but her cover's still blown."

"Any idea how it happened?"

"Her best guess is that somebody saw her picture online. Apparently some pictures taken last month at a friend's birthday party ended up on the friend's My Space page, whatever the hell that means. By the time she found out and got the friend to remove the pictures, they had been out there for a while."

"She didn't think to tell you about the possible breach?"

"Didn't think it was important. You know how it is." She replied.

"They never think it's important until they're staring down an AK-47." He commiserated. "I'll get the ball rolling on her relocation. Let me go make some calls."

Stan sequestered himself in the SUV and on his cellphone for the next twenty minutes, making arrangements. Carla would be on a plane leaving Albuquerque in just under three hours. He also arranged for another pair of WitSec Marshals from the office to complete the transfer. As much as he knew that Mary would want to see the case through, Marshall had just been involved in what was likely, by now, a fatal shooting. The young man had never before been forced to take a life, and the experience would undoubtedly affect him. No decent man would be in the right state of mind after that to properly protect a witness, and Marshall Mann was a decent man. Stan also knew that this was one of those occasions where partners should be there for each other, so he was not going to send Mary alone. A fatal shooting is an unfortunate milestone in a partnership, and Stan was nervous to see how this pair would react.

During the time Stan had been on the phone, Mary had given her statement, and Marshall had just finished as well. Stan quickly told them to expect Ron and Eric to arrive any minute to take Carla to the airport, and went to debrief with the investigating officer himself. Captain Winters told him that the shooting had been a clear cut case of self-defense, though the details surrounding why the Marshals had been present remained… ambiguous. Sometimes Stan really wished they could just admit to the whole Wit Sec thing. It would make the paperwork in these situations so much easier. Fortunately, most police detectives were smart enough to put two and two together when a pair of US Marshals were involved an incident where they were obviously protecting an "ordinary citizen" that just recently moved to town. Captain Winters seemed to grasp the situation. Stan thanked him for his cooperation and returned to his agents.

Carla was just climbing into the back seat of an unmarked dark colored sedan. Marshall closed the car door behind her and gave a thumbs-up to the Marshals in the front seats. Stan stopped his approach close enough to hear their conversation, but not so close as to be intrusive.

"Way to take your sweet ass time in there." Mary began teasing as soon as they were alone. "Had to get the perfect shot?"

"It wasn't the perfect shot." He mumbled.

"The guy is down for the count. That's damn good enough for me." She returned.

"I wasn't trying to kill him."

"Hate to break this to you, but shooting someone in the chest kinda does that to them."

"Not if you aim just right." He supplied

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The heart sits about two thirds up the chest, just left of the middle."

"That's where they put it on all the targets at the shooting range." She interjected.

"A shot in that area will hit the heart or great vessels and kill someone almost instantly. But if you aim a few inches to the right and up a bit you still get them in lung tissue, but avoid major blood vessels. With prompt medical attention it should be an instantly disabling, but ultimately survivable injury."

"Prompt medical attention? Christ Marshall! Some guy tries to kill you, me, our witness, and you're thinking about making sure you don't kill him when you shoot him, and giving him first aid?"

"I don't relish the idea of taking a life. It's not my thing." He shrugged

"I say better him than me. That's my thing." Mary countered.

Marshall continued to quietly stare at the house without responding.

"Come on. This is where you whip out some obscure, overly wordy quote by some dead person that I may or may not have heard of. Then I give you shit about it and we move on."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't think I have any quotes for this occasion." He said almost sourly.

"Now that's an occasion!"

"I think we're done here." Had said flatly and turned towards the SUV they had arrived in earlier. The sun was starting to dip below the western horizon.

Stan could do nothing but watch. Poor Marshall. He'll have a hell of a time getting over this by himself. He stared hard at the pair walking further away from him, willing one of them to make a move. If they couldn't open up to each other now, their chances of working out long term seemed slim. Mary's confused body language relayed that she was starting to realize how hard Marshall was taking this. _Come on…_ Stan felt himself mentally urging. _Huh?_ An odd thought struck him. Since when did he care this much about the personal interactions of any of the Marshals under his watch, especially these two?

As they reached the SUV, Mary shot Stan a glance that screamed "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Stan shrugged his shoulders at her. This one was up to her.

"Hey, Mother Theresa, why don't you stop pining over the hit man you just offed, and let's go get drunk."

"Thanks, but I'm not really in the mood to be out in public tonight."

"Who said anything about going out? I've got plenty of booze at my place. We can order a pizza." She almost sounded nervous.

Marshall's face softened a little, then soured again. "I don't think you'd find my company tonight to be very entertaining."

She checked her watch. "The Yankee game's on. By the time the game's over, we'll be so shit-faced, that fat bitch with the white trash accent selling perfume and commemorative plates on the home shopping channel will be entertaining."

Marshall perked up once he realized that the offer was genuine. "Ok. Wait… this is some devious attempt to get me inebriated and take advantage of me, isn't it?"

"You'd like that way too much, wouldn't you, Pervis?" She laughed.

That was the last of the conversation that Stan heard before the truck's doors shut and they drove away. As he made his way back to the office, his cell phone rang. It was the hospital calling to let him know that emergency surgery had gone surprisingly well, and the would-be assassin looked like he would make it after all. Stan debated calling Marshall right then, but realized that the news might derail the partners' bonding session. Again, he was surprised by just how much he felt for the unlikely pair. Theirs was a partnership that never should have worked. Maybe that's all it was- everybody likes rooting for the underdog. He'd give Marshall the good news in the morning.

The next morning, a pitiful looking pair of US Marshals entered the office twenty minutes late, wearing sun glasses and clutching bottles of Advil and water. Marshall was still wearing the same clothes from the day before and immediately made his way towards the coffee pot. Stan greeted them, and the sound of his voice obviously irritated what must have been pounding headaches.

"You two look like crap." He finally acknowledged.

Mary answered sarcastically, "Thanks Stan, and you look like you're having a great hair day today, too."

Marshall shook his head silently at her as he sat a coffee cup on her desk and made his way over to his chair.

"Sorry boss. That was a low blow. Even for me."

"I'll just assume it was the hangover talking." He smiled. "I hope you two had a good time last night." Stan had no idea was so funny about what he had just said, but the pair simultaneously burst into hysterics. Mary was convulsing with silent laughter and Marshall was giggling. "All right then." Stan turned towards his office, then remembered something. "Hey Marshall…"

He could barely control himself to get out, "Yeah Stan?"

"Hospital called. The guy's going to make it."

That stopped the giggles, but the smile remained in Marshall's eyes. "Thanks Stan."

As Stan turned back towards his office, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wadded up piece of paper hit Marshall in the face. The giggling resumed. He couldn't help but smile at the laughter. He had no idea what it was about, but that was the point. They now had inside jokes. On some level, they had bonded – as partners and as friends. And that just may be the funniest thing he'd seen all year.

**TBC...**


	5. Predictable chaos

The keeper's keeper

Ch. 5 - Predictable chaos

**A/N: this one is a short, almost filler chapter. The next chapter is one I've been really looking forward to writing, but it was going to be too long of a jump in the time line if I didn't put something else in before**.

It was Christmas time again at the Albuquerque WitSec office. Decorations had been hung (and Mary had quickly removed any within arm's reach of her desk or areas she frequented - like the coffee maker), people were humming Christmas carols (except when Mary was within earshot), Marshall had a goofy Santa hat that he wore at all times in the office (despite Mary's many attempts to stealthily steal and destroy it), there was eggnog in the refrigerator (until Stan realized that someone had spiked it… didn't take three guesses as to who…), and more witnesses than normal were misbehaving (except Mary's – she had put the fear of God in them about slipping up around the holidays). And so it would be, Stan realized, for all the late Decembers in the foreseeable future, as long as Mary Shannon remained there. It was a sort of predictable chaos that Stan had grown accustomed to.

However, Stan still found himself looking forward to the few days of peace and quiet that he was about to obtain, as Mary and Marshall were each going to visit family for a few days over the actual holiday. Marshall seemed delighted about the opportunity to see his parents, siblings, and extended family. Mary was obviously acting more out of obligation than actual desire to see her eccentric mother or dopey sister, yet she was going.

Their flights were leaving at nearly the same time, and Stan had offered to drive them to the airport. They had eagerly accepted, knowing that finding parking at the airport during the holiday rush would be a nightmare of epic proportions. They had agreed on what time Stan would meet them the evening before. He arrived at Marshall's about half an hour early. He knew the man would be ready early any way, and the extra time would easily be absorbed by attempting to get Mary to leave anywhere near on schedule. He also wasn't about to show p at Mary's apartment at 6am without reinforcements.

Marshall knocked on her door. They heard a few muffled thuds and curses before Mary finally flung it open. She was obviously still in pajamas, with a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth at an angle. She muttered something around the toothbrush that Stan found incomprehensible, but Marshall seemed to understand. She quickly retreated to the back of the apartment as the men entered. Stan stood somewhat awkwardly in the foyer as Marshall made his way to the kitchen and started up the coffeemaker. He quickly pulled the machine from the wall, grabbed filters from a drawer and coffee grounds from the freezer. He took two mugs from a cabinet, looked to Stan, and grabbed third. He got sugar down from another cabinet, a carton of half and half from a shelf in the refrigerator, and three spoons from another drawer. The fact that Marshall had procured each item from its less than obvious place on the first try without searching was not lost on Stan. He had known that they were spending more time together outside of work since the shooting incident a few months back, but he didn't realize that it was enough time for Marshall to have memorized the layout of Mary's kitchen. It was unexpected and interesting.

Stan added sugar to his coffee as Marshall mixed up a mug for himself and one for Mary. She wandered into the kitchen a moment later, and a mug was thrust into her hand before she said a word. She was now dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and she carried a medium sized black duffel bag.

After finishing the coffee in one long swig, Mary announced, "Good morning ladies. Let's get this show on the road."

"Just can't wait to go spread your unmistakable brand of Christmas cheer to the great state of New Jersey, can you." Marshall smiled as he rinsed out the mugs and the coffee pot.

"Like a fat kid loves rice cakes." She smiled back

Stan chortled at that. How did they manage this amount of witty sarcasm this early in the morning?

They all piled into the SUV. Stan drove, Marshall rode shotgun, and Mary sat in the second row, leaning forward over the console between the two front seats. The drive to the airport was made in companionable silence, likely due to the early hour. Stan dropped them off at the curbside check in. Marshall tried to carry Mary's bag for her, and she hit him in the shoulder, hard. Marshall, however, refused to relent control of the bag, and a violent game of keep-away ensued. Stan saw them attract the attention of airport security and quickly grabbed his credentials and badge from the center console. He stepped out of the SUV just in time to see Mary break the wrist hold Marshall had put her in and promptly kick out one of his knees from the back. He still had a hold of her wrist slightly, and pulled to bring her down with him. Airport security arrived just as they hit the ground and Stan yelled "Inspectors!"

The pair on the ground looked like they were kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. "He started it." Mary coughed out and stood up.

Stan held up his badge to the airport security, and they backed off with his insistence that he had everything under control. "Can you two play nice until you make it to your respective gates?"

"Yes, dad." They both muttered in unison, then broke into giggling at the synchronous response.

Stan just shook his head and got back into the SUV. He saw them walk into the terminal, Mary carrying her own bag, and realized that they were probably much more entertaining if they weren't your responsibility.


	6. Pie fixes everything

The keeper's keeper

Ch. 6 - Pie fixes everything

**A/N - Psych... I lied. This isn't the chapter I've been really looking forward to writing yet. I realized that I needed a better justification for why that chapter needed to occur, so this kinda had to come first. It will make sense later. Promise. **

Stan knew it had just been a matter of time. It had taken a year and a half, but that June the first complaint had been lodged against Mary by a witness. As Stan began to read the official letter detailing the claims, he was slightly concerned about the allegations of ineptitude, unprofessionalism, coercion, and apathy towards the well-being of a witness. While he knew the sentiments weren't true, he could understand how that particular inspector's actions could sometimes be misconstrued to appear that way. Then he got to the paragraph where they extended the claims to include the actions of Inspector Mann as well. _Ok, whomever did this is obviously off their gourd._ Stan realized.

He pulled the file on Patricia Keller, formerly Patricia Kensington. He only had to get about half way through the first page of the first incident report before he remembered the woman and her family with perfect clarity. Her husband, Maxamillion Kensington, had been a typical white collar criminal, embezzling from his investment firm and misdirecting funds that he was supposed to be investing. He shared a posh Manhattan penthouse with his wife and seventeen year old daughter, Elizabeth. Hubby was pinched in the early investigation of his firm, and agreed to roll on the higher ups. Concern for his safety had emanated from the money and power held by those he would be testifying against, as well as the fact that a portion of the money that he embezzled had come from an NYPD pension fund his firm had been contracted to manage. Neither Max nor Patty, who had been fully aware of where the funding for her giant closet full of shoes whose designers Stan couldn't pronounce had come from, seemed repentant for or disturbed by Max's crimes. He had concurred with Mary's initial assessment after their first meeting and the MOU signing, "Wow. That's a pair of douche bags if ever I've seen one." By some genetic fluke, the daughter seemed to be the only one in the family with a conscience.

The adult Kellers had expressed a disdain for Albuquerque from the minute they stepped off the plane. Mary had ushered them through the MOU signing with as much tolerance as she was capable. They had complained about having to give up the Kensington name, the substandard living conditions of their middle class neighborhood, and pretty much anything else that, to a normal family fleeing for their lives, would have been trivial. While the parents spent the next six months becoming increasingly more intolerable and threatening not to testify if their every extravagant whim wasn't catered to, the daughter settled into public school, made friends, kept her story straight and was one of the few witnesses Mary actually enjoyed meeting with. The kid had a good head on her shoulders.

Mary and Marshall had gotten Mr. Keller through his trial without incident and he had settled into an accounting job back in Albuquerque. The frequent vitriolic complaints decreased significantly over the next few months, and it was hoped that the parents had followed the child's lead and settled in. Mary checked in on Elizabeth slightly more often than necessary based on her father's threat status. She just didn't have a good feeling about why complaints from the household were decreasing. Turned out that Mommy spent most of the day in a bottle of moderately priced shiraz, and Daddy was schtuping his secretary.

The final incident report in the file told the official story, but Stan could read between the lines and, with some off the record input from Marshall, had a pretty vivid picture in his mind of how the incident really went down.

._._._._._._._._._._

Mary and Marshall had gone to check on Elizabeth one day when the high school principal had called to inform Mary her unexcused absence. Turned out that she had merely had a cold, and by the time 9am rolled around, Patty was too hammered to call in the excuse. While they were there, Max and his play thing rolled into the house around lunch-time, expecting to have it to themselves. An epic battle pursued between the spouses, and the secretary quickly turned and fled back through the front door they were still standing in front of, but Elizabeth and the Marshals had no means to escape. At one point Mary looked down to Elizabeth and exclaimed loud enough for all to hear, "Jesus, are you sure you aren't adopted or something?"

Marshall noticed the young woman's tear filled brown eyes brighten slightly at Mary's joke. Then he froze. He looked to her parents to confirm what he already knew. They both had blue eyes. "Umm... Mare…"

Mrs. Keller was screaming at Mr. Keller about the inconceivability of his infidelity after her years of being the perfect subservient wife and partner.

"No, I'm serious. I'm not sure what kind of major genetic mutation happened, but that's the only way I can explain you being descended from these two dimwits." She continued. "God, I wonder what the milkman looks like."

"Mare…" Marshall urged quietly, but was cut off.

Patty spun on them. "What do you know? How dare you come into my house and make these accusations. Are you trying to ruin my marriage?"

"Honestly, it looks like you two are doing a fine job of that all by yourself. And what the hell is your problem?" Mary hadn't figured it out yet.

Patty drunkenly took a swing at Mary, which she easily avoided. Marshall grabbed the woman's shoulders, partially to restrain her and partially to keep her from falling down.

"What the fuck is your deal?" Mary looked around the room for an answer and Patty began to sob.

Marshall quietly explained, "Mary, look at their eyes. Elizabeth's are brown. Patty and Max both have blue eyes. Blue iris pigmentation is a genetically recessive trait, meaning that neither one of them carries the gene for brown eyes. Since we know that Patty gave birth to Elizabeth, Mendelian genetics dictates that Max is not her biological father."

"Oh." She replied, "Shit."

"Is that true?" Max bellowed.

Patty just continued to sob.

"I think we need to give them some time alone to discuss things." Marshall offered.

Mary, Marshall, and Elizabeth left the house quietly and drove to a little diner down the street. Mary ordered a cup of coffee. Elizabeth declined anything. Marshall insisted she try the cherry pie a la mode. "It cures colds, and… helps with… other things." She consented and he ordered a slice of cherry pie for her and peach cobbler for him. He then looked over at Mary and ordered Boston cream pie for her. "You look like you could use some pie too."

"So, what, pie fixes everything?" She questioned him

"Pretty much." He replied.

Once the pie arrived and she took a few bites, Mary added, "You might be onto something here."

They sat and quietly ate their pie for a few minutes before Elizabeth spoke up, "I knew. I've known since we learned about genetics in seventh grade. I just never said anything."

They finished their pie and returned Elizabeth home. Max had stormed off insisting on a divorce, and a drunken Patty blamed the Marshal's for outing the secret she'd kept for almost twenty years.

._._._._._._._._._._

Stan looked over the two re-assignment forms from the now divorced and separated Mr. and Mrs. Keller. The opt-out form for the barely eighteen year old Elizabeth was also in the file, along with a copy of her acceptance letter to Brown's pre-law program. In Mary's scrawl at the bottom of the paper was written "future divorce attorney?". Stan chuckled and removed all the appropriate incidence reports. He made copies and included them with a copy of the complaint letter and a letter he had written summarizing the case and Patricia Keller's personal problems. He tossed the envelope in the outgoing mail pile and left for the night.

A few weeks later another official letter arrived. Inspectors Shannon and Mann were cleared of any official wrong-doing in the management of the Keller case. However, as both were due for recertification within the next eighteen months, it was being mandated that they attend the advanced Inspector status recertification and training exercises at the US Marshall training facility in Georgia in the next four weeks. As their direct superior, Stan was required to attend and observe.

Stan remembered the grueling four days of advanced training and certification from when he had gone through it years ago. It included every conceivable scenario that an inspector in the US Marshall Service might encounter. While he had no doubt that the pair had the ability to pass the tests with ease, many of them were based as much on how you respond to the situation as the overall outcome. Their only problem would occur if they didn't take this seriously.

He grabbed the paper and walked out of his office to go inform them of the situation. What he then found did not give him hope for the upcoming events. They were sitting at their desks. Mary was shooting spitballs at Marshall through a straw, and he was attempting to block them using a plastic spoon that he waved about while making synchronously timed Star Wars light saber noises. He noticed Stan's arrival and put the spoon down to give his boss his undivided attention. A spitball then hit him square in the forehead and Mary cackled triumphantly.

"I can come back later, if you'd like." Stan offered sarcastically.

"No need Chief. Now's good." Mary smiled far too politely up at him.

"Verdict's in on the Keller issue." Stan announced, and they both looked at him seriously. "You were both cleared, but they're making you do your recertifications early and at the Georgia training facility."

"Field trip!" Marshall exclaimed triumphantly.

"Georgia. In August. Are you sure they're not punishing us?" Mary whined.

"Do whatever it is you need to do to prepare. We leave next Monday." Stan informed them and returned to his office. He watched through his window and noted that it wasn't five minutes before the game of spitwad Jedi resumed. Next week was going to be a disaster. But, on the bright side, at least he'd get to watch.

**TBC...**

**Side note - **During a very disgruntled day at work a few months ago, I looked up what is involved in joining the Marshal Service. Yes, I realize a drastic career change based on a fictional TV show is a bad idea, but let's be honest, I would look so hot in a bullet proof vest and a badge… The biggest thing is a 17 week boot camp-like training period where you live at this compound in southern Georgia and study the laws and regs, practice marksmanship with all kinds of weapons, learn hand-to-hand combat, go through conditioning and obstacle courses, and get trained in defensive driving tactics. Seriously, it sounds like summer camp for grown-ups. I kinda want to go.


	7. The Devil went down to Georgia

The keeper's keeper

Ch 7: The Devil went down to Georgia

**A/N:** So.. it's been a while.. sorry about that. Real life imploded. I also was rewatching some old IPS episodes, and was shocked to realized that I never saw large portions of the Season 2 episode Miles to Go. Probably a DVR malfunction or some such technological catastrophe, yet the important point is that I realized that IPS totally used the blue eyes/brown eyes thing I used in the last chapter. While I was not about to claim it as an original idea, the fact that it had been used in IPS already kinda made me feel like a total hack. As penance, and also as part of the reason this chapter took so long, I give you over 11,000 words of Stan-y goodness. This one chapter is longer than the previous 6 combined.

Any doubts Stan had held regarding Mary and Marshall's chances in Georgia next week had been thoroughly shattered by Friday afternoon. Upon learning of the required recertification on Monday, the partners had taken to their preparations with a fervor he did not previously believe them to be capable of. Every night after work they were at the shooting range. Marshall started hanging the best of previous night's targets on the front of their desks. Each morning Stan noticed the clusters getting slightly tighter within the central circle. By the end of the day, there would be an equally tight cluster of spitballs on the target on Marshall's desk front. Proof that her aim was equally deadly no matter the weapon

Any time they were in the office, Marshall could be heard randomly drilling Mary on rules and regs. Stan had been concerned about how long this could last before her patience for the quizzing expired, but the pair continued to practice productively and get along as amicably as he had ever seen. Over lunch they would discuss current theories and techniques in hostage negotiation and compare different tactical scenarios they had been involved in and what strategies had resulted in positive outcomes. She had also apparently been convinced to join Marshall on at least part of his morning run each day.

It was the most utterly unbelievable four days the eighth floor of the Sunshine building had seen in almost two years. Friday evening rolled around and after updating Ron and Eric on their active cases, the inspectors had one last trip to the range planned, followed by a few beers at a local pub to drop the stress level a notch.

"One last chance for you to try to beat me with the .45" She smiled as they were packing up to leave the office.

"Thought we might change it up and try the rifle range today." Marshall answered.

"So I can kick your ass from a distance. Good call." She added, "Longest shot picks the bar tonight?"

Marshall contemplated momentarily and answered, "I have considered he terms of your challenge, and I accept."

"Dork" she grumbled as they left the office.

Their little bet made Stan think. He glanced at the mass email sent to all the Chief Inspectors that would have teams at the recertification trials in the coming week. He recognized the names of a few of his colleagues, and realized _what's the point of having a horse in the race if you can't make it interesting?_ He picked up the phone. "Hey Tony, Stan McQueen. How are ya?" Pause. "Yeah, not since that big take down in '98. How are Peggy and the kids?" He listened through the answer, "Good to hear. So I see you're off to Georgia next week too." He paused to listen again. "Yeah, I picked up Mary Shannon when the Jersey task force was trying to get rid of her." A few exclamations passed. "You mean bet money on whose team does better? I don't know." His old friend tried twisting his arm, "Well I guess it might make it a bit more entertaining. How about a hundred bucks for whichever team has the highest overall score." Terms were agreed upon and Stan said his goodbyes. _Sucker_ Stan thought as he hung up the phone. He looked through the list and dialed another number, "Hey Phil, Stan McQueen…"

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

It was 10am on Monday morning and Stan sat at Gate B10 waiting for their flight to Atlanta. He had arrived right on time and wasn't particularly surprised that neither of his inspectors had arrived yet. Marshall was probably still making coffee and dragging Mary out the door. When it was only about 15 minutes until boarding began, Stan felt himself becoming slightly nervous. Then Marshall arrived at the gate, found him, and silently sat in the chair next to him. Mary must be close behind. "Did Mary get hung up at security?" Stan asked when she didn't appear.

"I don't know." He almost mumbled.

"Wasn't she with you? Where is she?" Stan was concerned by the tone of Marshall's reply.

"No and how should I know?" He answered curtly then took a book out of his bag and began to read.

Stan just stared. This was not good. Were they actually fighting? How would this affect their performance this week? What had happened in the two days since he had seen them last? It couldn't be that big a deal, since whatever happened, Marshall had survived it. They had a three and a half hour flight, followed by a two hour car ride. They would have time to work this out, whatever this was.

Mary arrived just as boarding was beginning. Stan was certain that she'd seen them, but instead of making her way over to where they were, she went straight to the desk at the gate. It looked as if she swapped out her boarding pass and then she immediately entered the line to board the plane.

Stan and Marshall waited until their zone was called and filed onto the plane. Marshall had the aisle seat two rows in front of Stan. Next to him, however, was not his partner, but a gray haired septuagenarian with whom Marshall quickly struck up a conversation. Stan found Mary about six or seven rows back on the opposite side of the aisle with headphones already in place, eyes closed, and classic rock blasting so loud from her ipod, Stan was almost convinced he could hear it at his seat. Everything about her posture warned the forty-something business man sitting next to her to not even think about attempting to talk to her.

Touchdown in Atlanta was routine. Stan smiled a bit as he watched Marshall attempt to extricate himself from the terrified grasp of the old lady next to him. When they had hit some turbulence over Alabama, Marshall had offered his hand for her to squeeze if she got scared. The turbulence passed quickly, but she continued to cling to him for dear life until they were safely at the gate. Stan and Marshall were standing side by side in the aisle, retrieving their carry-ons from the overhead bin as Mary rudely shoved past.

"Inspector Shannon." Stan all but barked at her as she continued to push past other passengers.

Marshall gave a look that said _why bother_.

The reply she bellowed, "Whatever Stan. Gotta take a piss." Did not appease him. A heavy set woman blocking the aisle gave her an appalled look for the previous statement. "What's the problem Paula Dean? Outta the way or I go right here all over those fancy, what the hell are those? Loafers?"

The woman huffed and let Mary pass.

By the time they were off the plane ten minutes later, Stan was rubbing the bridge of his nose and Marshal had rolled his eyes so much, he had a clear view of the back of his eye sockets. The men waited outside the nearest ladies room for nearly fifteen minutes. Stan was debating the merits of forming a search party when Mary approached them from the bar across the aisle, beer in hand.

"I know they always say girls have to go in pairs. That's sweet." She chimed cheerily, then seriously added, "Let's get this shit show on the road".

They made their way towards ground transportation and Stan checked out the rental car. Getting into the sedan was the first time Mary and Marshall got within ten feet of each other. Mary climbed in back and Marshall sat shotgun as Stan drove. The partners had not spoken a word to each other and the silence continued another forty-five minutes into the drive. Stan had had enough. He abruptly pulled into a fast food restaurant parking lot and killed the engine. He got out of the car and addressed the stunned inspectors, "I don't know what is wrong with you two, and I don't care. But you better work this out before we get to the training center. I'll be back in ten minutes, or as long as it takes me to get a McFlurry. When I get back in this car you two better be back to bickering and stealing each other's food."

"Speaking of food, could you bring me a large fry?" Marshall asked.

"Fine. Mary?"

She just shot him a glance that insinuated that further speaking may be hazardous to his health.

Stan slammed the car door and walked towards the building. He instantly cursed the August temperatures that forced him to leave the keys in the ignition and the air conditioner running. There was the distinct possibility that the two, whether they worked anything out or not, would drive off and leave him stranded. He waited in line behind a couple of tourists decked in clothing indicating that they were on their way home from Disney World and an obese woman with a mullet and a moo moo. He was infinitely thankful that Mary had stayed in the car.

He returned to the car a few minutes later and found Mary and Marshall exactly where he had left them, each still pretending the other didn't exist. Stan handed Marshall the French fries he had requested and he thanked him. Mary still said nothing. The smell of grease and saturated fat from the fries filled the car. He suspected that it must be driving Mary crazy. Any minute she would reach over the seat and steal a few, and the normal order would be restored to their little world. Stan glanced at her in the rear view mirror. She sat behind the driver's side with her back against the door and head resting against the window. Hers eyes were shut and she did not even seem to notice the food.

Stan was at a loss. Angry Mary he knew how to deal with, petulant Mary he knew how to deal with, violent Mary he knew how to deal with, but silent disinterested Mary was something new altogether. Also, most of his "dealing with Mary" tactics involved making Marshall deal with Mary, because only he could. Her silence was like some type of guerilla warfare tactic and his only weapon no longer seemed to work. Whatever had happened, he sincerely hoped they could pull their shit together enough to get through the recertification. It would be a shame if this cost either of them their badge. They were used to working under stress, so I wouldn't likely pose much of a problem for them. Though, he realized sadly, this was very likely the end of the partnership. A team that won't communicate is ineffective at best, dangerous to the witnesses at worse. He slumped against the driver's seat as he began thinking about how he would re-partner them. Would Mary even stay in Albuquerque? In WitSec? He couldn't just split Ron and Eric and reassign them all. The other two agents in his office were a typical USMS partnership. They reminded Stan of a pair of German Shepherds. Both were alpha types, but generally obedient to the chain of command, their bite was just as bad as their bark, and they used neither sparingly. Despite the growing camaraderie between the two teams in the office, there was no hope of interchanging partners successfully. Would he even be able to get Mary re-assigned? Marshall had seniority in the office, so unless he requested a transfer, she would have to be the one to go. It had taken Jersey FTF over six months to find someone to take her last time and Marshall taking a shine to her was some kind of miraculous fluke. What are the odds of finding some other Marshall-like softie with masochistic tendencies that could convince his boss to keep her? He strongly doubted there were any Marshall duplicates out there, that kid is one of a kind. He also doubted there were any other Chief Inspectors that would accept the liability that was Mary Shannon based off of a set of big sad puppy dog eyes from an agent no one else wanted to be partners with. He realized that maybe that was why he had secretly rooted for the team. All three of them were fairly unique, and that was probably putting it nicely. The odds of all of their different types of crazy working together effectively was infinitesimal. When it had started to work, it had been something special, and something you know you will never be able to replicate. Stan's somber thoughts continued until they reached the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia just over an hour later. To his credit, at no point in his sad silent musings about the apparent implosion of his team did Stan ever once think about the $600 he had riding on their performance this week.

They checked in quickly and Stan noticed many of the other teams hanging around, introducing themselves, and generally being social. His team silently went in opposite directions towards the male and female dormitories. Stan mingled a bit then headed to the dorm he would be sharing with Marshall to get ready for dinner.

When he walked in, Marshall was laying on his back on the one-size-fits-all twin bed with his head on the pillow and his sock clad feet hanging a good 8 or 9 inches off the end of the bed. Stan put his bags down and saw that Marshall was in fact awake, though he made no sound or motion to acknowledge Stan's presence.

"Anything you'd care to talk about?" Stan asked in the best I'm asking as a friend, not as your boss voice he could muster.

"Nope." The reply was flat and unemotional.

"Ok. Well, dinner's in a few. I'm going to go get cleaned up. Something about commercial air travel… always makes me feel gross." Stan left the door open, as normally Marshall would not be able to resist inserting a fact about the methods or frequency of sanitation or cleaning on planes compared to other forms of travel. Instead he just grunted an acceptance of Stan's comment. _What had happened between these two?_

Dinner was about as good as any dinner served in a federally funded cafeteria could be expected to be. The beer and wine social afterwards was not the cluster Stan had feared it would turn into, but it was still a little heartbreaking to watch. Marshall carried around the same glass of red wine for about twenty minutes, making occasional half-hearted small talk with some of the other inspectors, before he put the still over half full glass down and retired to his room. Stan suspected the early end to Marshall's night had something to do with the actions of his partner, who had obviously already consumed more than her fair share of the beer and was making something of a spectacle of herself flirting, teasing, and arm-wrestling with any male oblivious enough to come within 20 feet of her. Stan tried to ignore her at first and chatted with long-time friends. His team's less than congenial showing tonight, however, brought up many comments about the wagers that had previously been made. A few offered to let him back out after seeing the scene tonight. The comment was eventually made, "It's alright Stan, come on, no one could predict how Shannon was going to act or when she'd turn on someone."

Stan had had enough. She might currently be behaving like a slighted three year old, but no one talks about his inspectors that way. Maybe it was the stress his inspectors placed on him with their little fight, maybe it was the constant ribbing he'd been taking for the last hour or so about their actions, but he was not going to take it any more. "Not only can I predict exactly how my inspectors are going to do this week, but I'm so confident in them that I'll double the wager with any of you!" They all looked stunned. "Shannon and Mann are the best pair of inspectors out here. You can say what you want about either of them, but you sure as hell better not say it in front of me." He then realized that most of the room had become silent, in indication that he may have uttered the last statement a bit louder than intended. He looked around and everyone avoided eye contact and went back to their own conversations. He wasn't sure if Mary had overheard. She was on the opposite side of the room, still tormenting some guy Stan didn't recognize. He realized that the night was over for his team. He marched over to her and gave the young man at her side a look that said "beat it kid" in no uncertain terms. "Inspector Shannon, a word?" He motioned to the exit door. Maybe it was the authoritative tone, or maybe it was the fact that she was fairly inebriated, but Mary actually followed the request without question.

They exited the reception hall and Stan silently led the way towards the women's dorms. When they got to the entrance to the area he stopped them. "I don't know what is going on with you two, but get the hell over it. If you two can't work this out, you're getting reassigned."

"Whatever." Was her only response.

"Right. Whatever. Because you don't care. Please." He wasn't having any of this. "You know what I saw tonight? I saw two people trying so hard to pretend that they didn't care about each other that it was painful to watch, and embarrassing. This show you put on tonight, I don't buy it. You don't go out of your way to be hurtful because you don't care."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Ok, sometimes you go out of your way to be hurtful when you don't care, but not to Marshall. He's your partner and your friend. From what I can tell, he's your only friend. Are you really willing to throw that away over whatever happened?"

She started to reply, but Stan cut her off, "No, I'm done with this. Good night inspector."

Stan walked back to his dorm and got into bed. He doubted that Marshall was actually asleep, but said nothing. The partners would work this out, or they wouldn't. He had done what he could and it was out of his hands now.

An alarm clock went off at 5 am and Marshall got up to go for a morning run before orientation at 8. Stan slept until Marshall got back, then both got ready, grabbed a quick breakfast, and were seated for orientation by 7:45. Mary snuck in just as they were closing the doors at 8:02 and subtlety made her way over to them and took the chair saved for her next to Stan. He considered that a good sign, even though the partners would still not make eye contact.

Orientation was long-winded and generally boring. The gist of the matter was that the tests would be divided as follows: Tuesday, after orientation was the written portions of the laws, rules, and regs, followed by hand gun proficiency. Wednesday was rifle proficiency, and defensive and offensive driving. Thursday was prisoner search, restraint, and take down followed by hostage negotiation. Friday concluded with a simulated target protection scenario. Passing scores were greater than 75% for each individual test.

Stan realized that, fortunately, the test schedule placed all the tests that would require teamwork and cooperation at the end of the week. Maybe they would get it together by then. Stan had a few hours free while the written tests were being administered and used the time to check in on the goings on back at the office. Neither Ron nor Eric had heard anything about why Mary and Marshall were fighting, but he hadn't really expected that they would. The pair did adamantly recommend that if the other partners were fighting Stan should be in body armor 24-7 to avoid the collateral damage and friendly fire that were eminent. He thanked them for the advice and took a long lunch outside of the center with some friends. They returned to the compound just as the rules and regs tests were finishing up. The inspectors got a short break, then it was down to the firing range.

Mary had no problem channeling her rage over both the issues with her partner and the annoyance of taking a four hour written test. She emptied the entire clip of her Glock in quick succession into a less than two inch spread all within the desired circle on the target 20 yards away. Her 100% score was unchallenged, and she got plenty of hearty congratulations from everyone at the range, except her partner, whom she continued to ignore. The subtle difference that Stan picked up on was that today Marshall allowed himself one pining glance at her while everyone else was congratulating her and he was certain she wouldn't see. Then, as he was focusing on his target and the adulations directed at Mary started to die down, she chanced a look over at him, and seemed slightly upset that he didn't say anything to her. Marshall produced a similar target to his partner's, though his two and a half inch spread was centered to the upper right portion of the center target and one bullet strayed onto the dividing line, earning him a 99%. Similarly he received some well-deserved back patting from almost everyone, except his partner.

The partners had the highest combined score after the handgun proficiency, though the palpable tension between the two had not gone unnoticed, and none suspected that they would keep up the dominance. The scores from the written test were released as everyone sat down for dinner. Marshall's 98% was no surprise to anyone, but Mary's 90% was. That score, whether she would admit it or not was a testament to Marshall's tutelage for the last week. Then again, Stan realized, you had to know the rules inside and out to be able to successfully subvert them as Mary liked to. They now sat in second place, 1% behind the pair of inspectors from Orlando. The first day ended uneventfully, and from what Stan could tell, his inspectors still had not spoken a word to each other. Again he found himself attempting to will them to make a move and do something to work this out.

When he and Marshall turned off the light in their room Stan tried again, "Still nothing you want to talk about?"

The answer remained the same, "Nope."

They next morning at the rifle range, Mary and Marshall both made kill shots at 300 yards with the AR 15. They were back on top of the standings. However, no one seemed less excited about it than the pair. Mary still seemed angry and Marshall still seemed disheartened. Stan still had no idea what had happened. They sat apart at lunch and there was no communication between them.

The offensive and defensive driving tests were arguably the most dangerous of the tests they would go through this week. One inspector was in each car, along with a scorer. One car was told to drive as if they were transferring a witness or a judge and were being pursued – the defensive driver. The other was instructed to act as if they were following a dangerous fugitive attempting to evade capture – the offensive driver. The role play would last for ten minutes, or until one driver successfully evaded or disabled the other driver. Then the roles were reversed and the exercise repeated. While the cars were equipped with everything possible to prevent flipping and rolling, it still happened occasionally and all car occupants wore helmets and were strapped into four-point harnesses just in case. Stan watched the first few groups go, and from the outside, it was obvious that some of these teams had choreographed their drives. Partners had planned which maneuvers to do when, who would evade who, etc. to attempt to take turns showing off and garner the highest possible scores. The scores seemed to indicate that the judges had some idea what was going on, but there didn't seem to be much of a penalty for it. Stan sighed. Even if they were speaking, his inspectors never would have produced one of these vehicular ballets he was watching. The point was to be able to act and react on your toes, use the car as a weapon or a shield as needed, not just execute fun maneuvers for show.

He saw Mary and Marshall get into their cars and he held his breath. The light indicating that the exercise had begun had barely illuminated when Mary floored her white colored Crown Victoria towards Marshall's black one. He threw the car in reverse, avoiding a full on impact, and executed a J turn that got him going in the right direction. No ambiguity as to who was offense and who was defense. The closed course was about 30 acres of simulated city streets. Marshall successfully evaded Mary for the next few minutes before she came up behind him quickly at a turn and clipped his back bumper, sending him into a spin. He recovered well and was off again before she could get in position to box him in. Mary was driving somewhat erratically and seemed out for blood. Marshall was responding skittishly and seemed to be driving as if he did truly fear for his life. There were places where certain spins, turns, or maneuvers could have been used to rack up points, but Marshall chose the simpler, less risky options like jumping a curb or making a quick U turn each time. It wouldn't be the high scoring drive that the choreographed exhibitions were, but Stan felt that it was a much better depiction of what actual defensive driving was like. The judges failed to agree. 86% for Mary's offensive driving and 84% for Marshall's defense.

Once the roles were reversed, the first few minutes went similarly, then Mary pulled out of a J turn and instead of fleeing the other car, she sped towards it like a game of chicken. Marshall quickly pulled away, not realizing what was going on. Again he found himself being pursued until she approached again and clipped the back passenger side quarter panel of his car hard, sending gnarled metal and plastic into the wheel-well, blowing out the tire and dislodging the axel. The car lifted up about thirty degrees, threatening to tip onto the driver's side as it spun around. The momentum faded and the car fell back down onto its wheels, the rear passenger wheel giving out at the impact and leaving the car unnaturally settled. Stan was on his feet and headed for the cars as Marshall flung his door open. He threw off the helmet and stalked over to Mary's car as she removed her safety gear and got out, primed for the confrontation.

"What the hell was that?" He screamed as he approached.

"Sometimes the best defense is a good offense." She replied, smug, not breaking eye contact.

"You could have killed us!"

"I knew what I was doing."

"You never know what you're doing! You never think! You just do whatever the hell Mary Shannon wants and if someone else gets hurt in the process you don't care." He got into her face.

Stan was close enough to hear the exchange and started to feel like they weren't fighting about the driving any more. He backed off a bit and helped the scorer out of Marshall's damaged vehicle instead of interrupting the two.

"No, you get hurt, because you're a giant pussy that gets so wrapped up in your feelings that you forget to grow a pair and do your damn job."

"My job? My job is keeping you from getting into so much trouble I can't get us out of it. I'm not a US Marshal anymore, I'm a goddamn babysitter!" Marshall snapped at her.

"Inspectors!" Stan decided to break it up before the two came to blows. _Damn, he really wanted to know what they were fighting about because none of that really made sense…_ A hand on Marshall's shoulder and gentle pressure got the tall man to back up a few steps and breathe. Mary still looked angry and out for blood. Stan gave her a look that conveyed "save it inspector", and went to talk to the judges. He just hoped they hadn't been completely disqualified.

After a few minutes of everyone catching their breath, settling down, and discussing the matter, it was decided that the pair would both get 80% for the second drive. Stan thanked the scorers and escorted his unruly Marshals through the crowd of jeering on-lookers. Once they got to the main building, Stan just walked away silently. Mary and Marshall stood in the same spot, stunned.

"What, you're not going to yell at us some more?" Mary queried after him.

He stopped and turned around. "No. There is nothing I can say or do that is going to fix whatever is wrong here. Either work it out, or don't. I'm done trying to help. And next time you do something that puts your careers in jeopardy I'm not going to intercede. That stunt today could have cost you your badges. I hope it was worth it." Stan walked off towards the mess hall. Marshall looked at Mary disdainfully and pointedly set off towards his room. She stood there for a moment, then huffed and walked towards her room.

That night, as Stan got into his bed and turned out the light Marshall began, "Hey Stan, can I…"

Stan interrupted, "No, Marshall. I mean it. I'm done. I'm not sure how you imagined that this would go when you begged me to make her your partner, but this is pretty much exactly what I, and everybody else in the Marshals Service expected. I'm through."

Marshall exhaled deeply and said nothing further.

Whatever their problem had been, at this point it was merely pride keeping them angry at each other. Sucking up your pride and apologizing to your partner is one thing. Letting a bunch of people that doubted you and talked smack about your partner since the beginning be proven right, now that was something else entirely. The only option left was to work it outand prove them wrong. Hidden by the dark, Stan smiled at his deviousness.

The next morning Stan awoke to an empty room. He wondered if his roommate was out for a jog, or if he was trying to patch things up with his partner.

Stan dressed and made his way down to the mess hall for breakfast. Mary was sitting alone at the end of a bench running down a long cafeteria style table, nursing a cup of coffee. He sat down next to her, "Good morning inspector."

"No talk 'till after coffee." She grunted in response.

Stan couldn't suppress a smile at that point. It was the most civilized thing she had said to him all week. Granted it was a series of barely audible grunts, but civility was a relative term in regards to Mary Shannon. Marshall then appeared with a tray overflowing with food. He tentatively sat down across the table from Mary and handed Stan a coffee cup.

"You're the man, Mann." Stan offered his usual thanks and began to sip the moderately warm beverage.

Marshall placed his tray slightly towards the center of the table and motioned for the others to help themselves. There really was more on the tray than even Marshall could eat. Stan acquiesced and took one of the adorable little miniature lemon and poppy seed muffins sitting amongst the assortment of breakfast pastries, fresh fruit, and pork-based breakfast meats. Mary silently and pointedly turned her head from the tray and her partner. Marshall was undeterred and after commenting that he regretted that he would be spending the week in Georgia, and not once getting to sample some home-made grits, a lengthy diatribe on the mushy breakfast food began. Stan feigned interest in the litany of grit facts, but was paying much closer attention to the other partner. Despite forcing every "closed off" posture and bit of body language she could muster – legs crossed, arms crossed, head and body turned away from the table, lips pursed, Stan noticed the constant glare from her peripheral vision at a particular sausage link on Marshall's tray that hung precariously over the edge of the plate. Stan was pretty sure that the effort of resisting the greasy meat stick was causing her physical pain. Marshall temporarily paused his lecture and leaned far down the table to grab a salt and pepper shaker. As he turned, she saw her opening and went for it. Stan saw the whole thing, and Marshall turned at the movement to catch his partner chewing awkwardly after attempting to shove the entire sausage link into her mouth at once to avoid attention. The two men just stared and smiled.

Mary looked angry, but it was the petulant kind of angry that they had all become accustomed to. With her mouth still full she grumbled, "What? I'm hungry. It was going to fall off the plate and… Fuck you both." She stood up and walked away.

The men just laughed, and Stan realized that he just exhaled a breath he had probably been holding for about three days. "You guys ok now?" He asked.

"Is it ever really ok with her?" Was the only reply Marshall could give, but he was smiling as he said it.

"But I can stop worrying that she's going to shoot you in your sleep?" Stan smiled.

"I'm not sure that card ever really gets taken off the table either."

"Marshall, you are a braver man than I. I hope whatever this little spat was about, that it was worth it."

"Speaking of 'worth it'," Marshall smiled luridly, "how much do you have riding on us?"

"Why inspector! I am appalled at your allegation that I would…" Marshall's disbelieving glare continued. "… twelve hundred bucks."

"Aye Carumba!" Marshall exclaimed. "I appreciate the belief in our abilities, but good God man, that's a lot of money."

"Well, it was half that, then they started talking smack about Mary and…"

"Say no more. I understand."

Then Mary walked up and joined the conversation, and she and Marshall broke off into one of their typical conversations that must make perfect sense to them, but anybody on the outside would have one hell of a time trying to keep up.

"What's he down for?" She asked

"Twelve."

"Our cut?"

"Just getting to that." Marshall answered and looked at Stan and raised an eyebrow.

"Half?" Stan responded

Mary snorted.

"Fine, you pull this off and it's an equal three way split."

The partners looked at each other tilted their heads, rolled their eyes, and nodded. "Deal." They said simultaneously.

"I don't suppose you two plan to help me out if you can't make a comeback?"

"You doubt?" She looked at Stan, then turned to Marshall, "He doubts!"

"Unbelievable." Marshall shook his head.

Then the partners began to plot and Stan just stepped back. "What are we down by?" Mary asked.

"Twenty."

"Ouch. Who?"

"Two ahead of Detroit. Three behind Seattle, ten behind Kansas City, fourteen to Des Moines, and Orlando's on top." Marshall listed their competitors by city of origin instead of names to depersonalize them.

"Which team has the bimbo?" Mary had little respect for the slender red head with the irritatingly high pitched voice that she'd been forced to share a dorm with for the last few nights.

"You mean besides Albuquerque?" An elbow to the ribcage wiped the smirk off of Marshall's face. "Kansas." He coughed out. "You've been rooming with her all week, one would think that's the kind of thing you would learn on your own."

"Yeah, well, she talks and I just hear nails on a chalkboard and get busy trying not to strangle her."

"Her voice does have a certain… _timbre_ to it."

"Bitch does that little flirty giggle thing and I swear it's so squeaky only dogs can hear most of it."

"But bow Wow!" Marshall added as the object of their current conversation stopped and bent over to pick up a dropped notebook a few yards away, causing her USMS issued sweatpants to cling very flatteringly to her back side.

"I swear to God," Mary rolled her eyes and grabbed the front of her partner's t shirt and started dragging him away, "You ever say that again and I will knee you in the junk so hard they'll have to remove your tonsils to find your testicles."

As the pair walked off, Stan's smile extended from ear to ear. He triumphantly clenched his fist in the air and exclaimed, "Yes!" Then someone looked at him like he must be a bit off, and he quickly trotted off after his inspectors.

About an hour later Stan sat in the gymnasium-like structure and watched as Mary and Marshall prepared for their next challenge. A big brawny guy, about six foot and 285 lbs stood in the middle of a mat covered floor. Each Marshal had to individually subdue, search, and restrain the "prisoner". When the other female agent was promptly knocked onto her ass trying to search the uncooperative man, Mary emitted a gleeful sound that Marshall attempted to classify as a squeak. Then she hit him, and he corrected that the sound had been more of a hearty guffaw. She hit him again and he sat quietly. They were up. No previous inspector had scored above a 92, and only the team from Seattle was left after them.

Marshall took to the mat first. The "bad guy" quickly made his first mistake, he attempted to tease and intimidate Marshall by making jabs about his female partner, "You come out here first so you can wear me down before Princess over there has to take her turn? Or are you worried I'll wear her out before you get your turn with her?" He smirked.

"No." Marshall replied coolly as he quickly shot a long slender arm out to pinch at the vulnerable point just outside where the flesh of the neck meets the shoulder. As the other man quickly dropped his shoulder attempting to relieve the pressure on the nerve cluster, Marshall fluidly stepped towards the man and used the shift in his center of gravity to easily swipe a knee out from under him with his foot. The bulkier man toppled forwards towards the mat and Marshall casually repositioned himself behind the man as he went down. A knee found the soft spot just to the left of the spine over a kidney and pinned him helplessly to the ground. "I went first because when she's done with you, you probably won't be able to get up. And I'd really hate to be late for lunch because they had to waste time finding another Neanderthal to take your place."

The big man squirmed and Marshall removed his left hand from the pocket of his sweatpants for the first time since stepping onto the mat. "Huh?" He sounded confused and turned towards his partner off to the side, "Were we allowed to use two hands this time?" She rolled her eyes at him. "Woops. My bad." Marshall smiled before quickly standing the man up and forcing him against the nearby wall to frisk him. He found the faux shiv hidden in the man's sock and tossed it out of reach. The larger man may have had a solid hundred pounds of bulk weight over Marshall, but Marshall was slightly taller and knew how to use every inch of his lean, limber frame to his advantage. When the "prisoner" attempted to break Marshall's one handed pressure hold on his wrist, Marshall quickly spun the man's arm around behind his body and twisted it at an unnatural angle. With a slight amount of upward pressure at the elbow, the man was howling for release. Marshall relaxed slightly, until the man tried to break free again, then he elevated the elbow with even more force. "That feeling that you feel right now, do you know what it is? It's the articular surface of the head of you humerus, that's your upper arm bone, grating against the rim of the glenoid fossa of your scapula, that's your shoulder joint. If I push much harder…" and he increased the pressure a bit for emphasis, "the muscles of your rotator cuff tear and your shoulder dislocates. It's quite an effective restraint and, look at that… I can do it with only one hand again. Amazing." A bell sounded, indicating that the exercise was complete. Marshall patted the other man on the shoulder and trotted off to the side where Mary was standing.

"Show off." Was Mary's only comment before taking to the mat.

Marshall looked over to Stan, who was standing next to the judges and held up fingers sequentially signaling a nine then an eight.

He had made it all look effortless. If Marshall's calm graceful exhibition had been like a ballet, Mary's go 'round was a mosh pit. It was a melee of knees, shoulders, elbows, and pretty much any angular portion of her body that she could use to induce pain flailing about and finding their mark. She didn't weigh nearly as much as the big man, and was a few inches shorter, but she had a lower center of gravity and knew how to throw what weight she did have around. It was a scrappy knock down drag out, but she always ended on top. She chose brute force over finesse, but still managed to effectively subdue the prisoner at all times. When the bell sounded she added an extra shove for good measure and pulled the hair elastic off of the small fraction of her hair that still remained in it.

She walked up to Marshall and Stan, shook her hair out and released a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort. The hands on combat definitely had her motor revved up. The only thing Stan found more terrifying than the feral glint in her eyes was the completely different look smoldering in Marshall's as he stared at her tousled hair and disheveled clothes. Thank God he was the only man Stan knew with more brains than stones. Anyone else probably would have done or said something to destroy the newly returned peace between the partners. Her score of a 96% was announced, and they took their seats to watch the last pair go. Their holds were a bit sloppy and if the "fugitive" hadn't seemed a bit worn down, there were a couple of times he surely would have knocked the shorter Marshal of the pair on his ass.

They were now tied with the team from Des Moines and a combined 8% behind Orlando with two tests left. The previous clusterfuck of a team from Albuquerque now sat together at lunch, all chatting, threatening each other loudly, and stealing food from each other's plates. The other teams couldn't miss the change in demeanor. They became slightly nervous, for good reason.

The hostage negotiation simulation took place in one of two buildings. There was a mock courtroom scenario and a small single family home. The buildings were all part of the little mock city that they would be working in tomorrow during the target protection scenario. To make the negotiation simulation fair, each set of partners could not watch the others. One partner from a pair would be the hostage, the other one responsible for their safe recovery. Each Marshal drew a card at random and gave it to the "hostage taker" without reading it. The card gave the judge playing the part of the hostage taker parameters for how to respond to the negotiations and what the overall outcome would be. As in real life, some can be talked down with the promise of a reduced sentence for cooperation, some will let the hostages live if they can just get out of there, and some are Hell-bent on going out in a blaze of fiery glory and taking as many innocent people with them as possible. Being able to get a read on a hijacker's intent is the foundation of successful hostage negotiation. The cards are pulled at random as to prevent anyone claiming favoritism in the scenario selection.

The Marshals' weapons had all been replaced for the remainder of the simulations with replica weapons that fired paintballs. Three yellow splotches on the back pockets of Marshall' jeans were a testament to Mary's distaste for being without her actual weapon combined with having to sit around and do nothing in the Georgia heat for three hours while the other teams went before them.

When it was finally their turn, Mary got to play the role of hostage first. She was to be a witness, taken hostage in her home. The hostage taker was twitchy and nervous, but after thirty minutes of conversation, trust building give and take, and pushing acceptance that Mary was a person and not a target, Marshall eventually talked the guy out of the house without harm to Mary. Ninety-seven percent.

The roles were reversed and Marshall played the part of a federal judge attacked and taken hostage by a vengeful gangbanger in his courtroom. Mary sat in the back of the fake courtroom and watched as she would later call "the whitest, fattest, gangbanger on record" jumped up and put a paintball gun to her partner's head. She surveyed the scene and watched each of the attacker's movements carefully. He started making ludicrous demands. He held Marshall in front of himself as a shield, only his head appearing over the taller man's right shoulder. Mary kept her "weapon" trained on the attacker.

"What's it going to take for all of us to walk out of here?" Mary shouted.

He wanted some gang affiliate released from prison, safe passage to a non-extradition country in the Caribbean for them both, and some egregious amount of money.

"You planning on taking that barrel-o-monkeys with you?" Mary asked, indicating towards Marshall with her gun.

"Yeah, sure." He replied casually.

"How about I give you to the count of ten to let him go?"

"Seriously chica?"

"One… two…"

"What are you going to do…"

"Three…"

"…ask nicely again?"

"Four… Five…"

"She's serious. You should probably do what she said." Marshall added, ever the helpful victim.

"Six…"

"No way she'd try to hit me with you in front."

"Seven…"

"No one's that crazy, or stupid."

"Eight…"

Marshall interjected, "Oh, you obviously haven't met M…"

His sentence was cut off by an unmistakable pfft sound. A yellow splotch was prominent on the villain's forehead.

"Awww, come on Mer! I think some of that got in my mouth." Marshall whined.

"That'll teach you to shut your hole." Two paintballs fired from her gun again in quick succession and stained the front of Marshall's shirt. "And that'll teach you to get taken hostage. Jesus Stan, look what kind of lame ass partner you stick me with."

Stan dropped his head to his hands. She just couldn't take this seriously.

The scorer/pretend hostage taker attempted to rub the paint from his forehead, walked up to Stan, and discreetly asked, "McQueen, in a real life scenario, do you honestly believe that Inspector Shannon would have taken that shot?"

Stan looked over at the partners. Marshall was trying to wipe the paint splatter off his tongue on the sleeve of her shirt and she was threatening to shoot him again. "You've seen her firearm proficiency scores. She knows she could make the shot. I honestly believe that if anyone was insane enough to put a gun to her partner's head, and she believed there was no other alternative, she would take it."

"Even with live ammo and such a high risk of collateral damage if her shot missed?"

"You come between those two and I guarantee you, she won't miss." Was the best response Stan could give.

"Inspector Shannon, can I please have a word with you?" The official asked.

"Yeah, I know I said I'd count to ten, but ya know… numbers… they all sound alike. And you were going to kill him no matter what number I counted to." Mary offered.

"What made you think that I would kill him regardless of your efforts?"

She started ticking points off on her fingers. "You were calm and deliberate, not edgy like any person that wanted to live would be with a half dozen weapons trained on them. Your demands were unreasonable, and you knew it. Your response when I asked what you were going to do with Marshall is what really gave you up. That was obviously the first time you considered it. Anyone that takes a hostage and wants to live has a well planned end-game. Anyone that takes a hostage and doesn't plan to live is planning to take everybody else down with him. And your eyes. You have really beady eyes. Has anyone ever told you that before?"

The man shook his head at her, placed the card she had previously selected on the table next to them, and walked away. Stan picked the card up and examined the scenario written on it:

_Terrorist mentality - intent on making a statement. Any standoff or prolonged negotiations will result in gunfire and fatalities. Will not be taken alive and will kill as many hostages as possible._

Below the instructions for the hostage taker there was a space for a score to be recorded. 98 was penciled in. Stan felt that Mary's random draw of attacker mentality was akin to a miracle, as this was probably how this little game would have ended regardless of the pretend scenario. But he had to admit, it had been one Hell of a shot, and he'd meant every word that he told the judge.

Dinner was an entirely different affair on Thursday night than anything the other attendees had seen so far that week. The three Marshals from Albuquerque caused a bit of a scene, but never even seemed to notice. There was throwing of food, not-nearly-as-discreet-as-they-thought-it-was passing of a smuggled in flask of whiskey, exuberant gesturing, taunting of anyone within earshot, and blatant cavorting that could only mean that they were up to no good.

It was their last night in Georgia, and they were celebrating. At this point they were a solitary 1% behind the team from Orlando. The only task left for the week was a simulated witness extraction and protection scenario. Puh-leez. This was what they do. It was not common knowledge that the team from Albuquerque were WitSec because, as Mary liked to mock, "The first rule of WitSec is don't talk about WitSec." It was cliché, but true. They also had no idea if any of the other teams were as well. The team from Orlando was good, and they silently suspected that their jobs may also involve hiding people in plain sight, but they did not ask. Even despite the fact that their only real competition had potentially also specialized in the same field as they did, Mary and Marshall seemed unconcerned about the next morning's test.

Mary and Marshall decided to turn in for the night first, or so they said. Stan hung around the mess hall a bit longer, chatting with friends. He noticed that the previous teasing about his inspectors had ceased entirely. Everybody actually now kind seemed nervous when he walked up. Probably because they all realized that they were about to owe him money. About 45 minutes later he walked towards the dormitory he shared with Marshall. When he got to the door he found a sock stuck over the door knob.

"Oh, not funny, guys." He yelled through the door before opening it. They were each sitting cross legged on opposite ends of Marshall's bed with folders and papers spread out between them.

"What are you…" Stan could barely believe his eyes, "…are you studying for tomorrow?"

"Um, no." Mary stated like it was obvious, "We're having sex. Jesus Stan, didn't you see the sock on the door? That really only means one thing. What kind of prude, all girls catholic college did you go to?"

"Mary, out." He instructed, trying to put some authority in his voice without laughing. She grumbled as she got up and collected few papers. "You'll do just fine tomorrow." He reassured them both as she walked out the door.

She grabbed the sock off the knob and threw it back into the room. It landed on Marshall's head.

Marshall looked like he was about to apologize or start gabbing.

Stan cut him off by saying "You two give me ulcers." Before he turned off the light and rolled over in bed to go to sleep.

The next morning they were up bright and early. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, and already it was a muggy 84 degrees outside. The previous day's rise in rankings meant that they would go second this morning, hopefully before the temperature soared into the triple digits.

The scenario seemed straight forward enough. A witness's cover was blown. They are hiding in an abandoned building. You have to find them and get them safely back to the command center. The problem was, you had no idea how many bad guys there were, where they were hiding, or who they were. The exercise would utilize the entire mock town that existed on site, as well as the tactical driving course. Each building and area of the course had better security camera coverage than a casino floor, such that all the action could be monitored without a judge physically having to be present. The fake little town came alive with fake bystanders, consisting of USMS trainees that volunteered to crowd the streets and buildings, making the scenario more realistic. Somewhere hidden amongst them were the people going after their witness.

Mary and Marshall were sequestered while the team from Orlando went, so that no one would learn the surprises that existed on the course before they went. When the team from Albuquerque was brought into the "planning area" they saw the other agents looking quite proud of themselves. Stan joined them and informed them that the team to beat just made a 94 and 95%. Supposedly very high marks for this course.

The big surprise that they were instantly greeted with was Stan. Part of the reason for the Chief Inspector in charge of each team being present for the week was for this exercise. How well they followed his instructions and interacted were all part of the scoring. Planning was the first portion of the exercise, and they quickly set to work determining the best points of entry and exit for the building their witness was is, getting an idea of the layout, and developing a strategy to safely get her back to the command center. Stan presented options and Mary and Marshall weighed in with opinions based on their personal strengths and weaknesses in each type of situation. After ten minutes and requesting a half dozen different maps and building schematics, they had a plan. They pulled on USMS baseball caps, strapped on bullet proof vests, purely for show, as this was another paintball only mission, and checked their "weapons". Stan suspected that the vests and hats were meant to make them easier to pick out on the cameras. They set out purposefully, and the following fifteen minutes were one of the greatest things Stan had seen in his career. Their plan worked like clockwork. They were in the building, and had control of the witness before anyone was the wiser. They cleared each area quickly and effectively, assigning tasks and generally communicating with simple nods and hand gestures. They located and suppressed the two assailants hiding in the building before they could even draw their weapons. Stan felt his gut tighten a bit when they approached the assigned vehicle. The last time these two took to the driving course, it hadn't ended well. This time, however, Marshall stopped Mary and the witness just before getting into the car. He ushered them back into the doorway of the closest building and gave the car a quick once over. Peaking under the back of the car, he alerted on a small flashing red light, a tracking device. He shook his head to the two women and checked out the car two parking spaces down, that they were not particularly authorized to use. A quick inspection showed no tracking devices, bugs, bombs, or major mechanical sabotage. They hopped in and Mary quickly hotwired the vehicle. The change in plan alarmed Stan slightly, but that was exactly what they should do in a real situation. When it's life or death for a witness, the USMS does have the right to confiscate a vehicle to get them to safety. He just hoped the little war-game also found it acceptable. They made their way through a back street around the little town, where a tail would be easier to detect. They quickly traversed the driving course, as the lack of a tracking device seemed to give them a lead over their attackers. All that remained was a quick jog from the vehicle, up two blocks and into the command center. Marshall, in his bullet proof vest, gun drawn, lead the witness, clad in sweatpants, t shirt, and hair pulled up into Marshall's baseball cap to attempt to make her less conspicuous, through the now relatively crowded street. His partner, in her matching bullet proof vest and cap, hand on her holster, followed about fifteen yards back. About half a block from the command center all Hell broke loose. A car swerved up and jumped the curb, blocking their path. As Marshall and the witness dove out of the path of the car, they became separated. The car's passenger door opened and a man approached the witness, gun drawn. Much to his surprise, a paintball hit him in the chest. Mary knocked off the baseball cap that had hidden her face, and dramatically blew across the muzzle of her paintball gun she had hidden in the waist of the sweatpants she had swapped with the witness for in the car. The witness, that had been disguised as Mary, was making a break for the command center with Marshall on the far side of the street, as Mary subdued the driver of the car. They made it safely into the building to a round of applause from the judges. Stan just beamed. His kids had done good. Apparently their little stunt had never been attempted before, and the judges loved the outcome. Most traditional scenarios that were technically successful still ended up with a fair amount of gun play on a busy city street. Also, very few of the Inspectors ever found the tracking device in the assigned vehicle, and a chase on busy streets always ensued. Perfect scores and congratulations to both of them.

There was no longer any contest. Mary and Marshall were the clear victors in the unofficial competition. While they would neither confirm nor deny, there was little doubt as to which branch of the USMS they worked for. There was also little doubt as to why Stan McQueen had gone nearly two years without even once attempting to relocate the previously intolerable Inspector Shannon. Stan made his rounds, collecting on the large sum of cash that was now owed to him, and Mary and Marshall took up seats near the judges to watch the hilarity that they knew was about to ensue.

Just as Mary had referred to it as WimpSec about two years earlier, most Marshals outside WitSec mistakenly believe that it is mostly babysitting, hand-holding, and making fake ID's. Those that underestimated the skill and artistry that went into witness protection were sure to get a rude awakening. And having to follow Mary and Marshall's stellar performance would just make it look all that much worse. Stan joined his team near the wall of monitors and wished for a bucket of popcorn. They began attempting to deduce if any of the other teams were potentially in their line of employ.

At first they believed there was a chance that the guys from Des Moines were. They spent a good amount of time working on a tactically sound plan. It started off well, then one got so excited when he located the witness that he forgot to finish securing the location and an assailant jumped out of the closet and got a paintball onto the witness's back before the Inspector could stop him.

"Now I really hope they _aren't_ WitSec." Stan mumbled.

"All that planning, and he lets his witness take one in the spine." Marshall sounded disappointed.

Mary countered, "But on the up side, could you imagine how much easier it would be to keep track of witnesses if they were all quadriplegic?"

"Touché." Marshall answered.

Kansas City got a little flustered at a few times, but generally held their own. Mary began to wonder if her roomie's irritating personality may have been an act. Seattle and Detroit were obviously pairs of meat heads that spent most of their days kicking in doors. The spectators expected catastrophes from the get-go and were not disappointed. The judges took a short break before finishing up the second half of the teams. Stan didn't want to appear to be a poor winner, but the entertainment value of the trials was starting to wear thin and he could tell that his inspectors were starting to get antsy about getting home, or at least getting off the generally alcohol restricted compound. Stan spoke to some of the higher-ups, and a few minutes later he had some forms in hand and told the other two to go grab their stuff.

Just over two hours later, the rental car was returned and they were relaxing at the bar inside the Chili's at the Atlanta airport. In front of each sat an empty shot glass and used lemon wedge, as well as one to two glasses of beer at varying levels of emptiness. A plate of boneless buffalo wings traversed back and forth down the bar between the three of them. When the plate was empty, Marshall ordered an apple crumble with ice cream, because it was the closest thing they had to pie.

"This is celebratory pie." Marshall announced as he battled Mary for the first bite.

"As opposed to what? Sad pie?" She questioned.

"Throughout history, pie has been utilized in many different situations. Over ten thousand years ago, paintings were made on the walls of the tomb of the Pharaoh Ramesses II depicting him eating celebratory pie. Romans used a pie with cheesecake-like pie as an offering to the gods to prevent …"

"Did you just say cheesecake pie?" Mary interrupted.

"I was referring to the 'libum' or pastry shell with a filling that resembled modern cheesecake."

"Seriously, there's a cheesecake pie? I might have just had an orgasm."

"Ew." Marshall responded, and they silently went back to eating.

They made short work of the dessert and spent a good while basking in the glow of beer, indulgent food, and a colossal victory all combined. The waitress walked up with the check and looked questioningly at all of them. Mary and Marshall both silently pointed towards Stan, and the bartender got the idea.

"What do you think you're doing?" Stan questioned them.

"Hey, you just made some serious cash off of our hard work." Mary proffered.

"And you know how she is." Marshall added. "She's not used doing any hard work for a guy without him buying her a few." Her used lemon wedge hit him in the side of the head nearly before he finished speaking.

"Speaking of putting out…" Mary's outstretched hand shot towards Stan as he went to pay the bill. "I believe we had an arrangement…"

After all he had seen them do in the past week, he was not about to challenge them. He divided up the cash and handed it out accordingly. By the time they left the restaurant and caught the underground tram to their concourse, their flight had begun boarding. There was no rearranging of seats this time, and Mary sat in the window, Marshall the aisle. Stan was in the aisle seat on the opposite side, one row back. Marshall's long legs required the aisle seat so that he could unfold himself from the cramped space during the flight, but during take-off he was like a giant child. He leaned all over Mary to get a good view out the window as the earth raced past and dropped away under them. She initially threatened to shut the window shade if he didn't stop invading her personal space, but the child-like glee in his eyes was more than even she could resist and she just leaned back in her chair and let him stare in wonder. She got her reimbursement later on in the flight by making him pilfer a few of the very tiny vodka bottles off the beverage cart while the flight attendant was distracted. The flight was uneventful, and the touched down in Albuquerque right on schedule. Despite everything that had happened this week, their demeanors shifted slightly as soon as they stepped off the plane. As they walked through the tunnel into the terminal, Stan watched both Marshals turn on their cell phones and start making calls. Even though it had been a work related trip, he realized that the previous five days was the longest consecutive time the pair had been away from their witnesses since their partnership began. Being back in charge of their witnesses somehow made them actually look more at ease than when they had been drinking beer and eating pie back at the bar. It was good to be home.

**TBC...**

**A/N:** Ron and Eric, the other ABQ WitSec Marshals reappeared in this chapter. The reason Stan compared them to a pair of German Shepherds is because that's what they are in real life. They belong to the lady I split an office with, and they come to work with her every Wednesday and Friday and chill in our office all day. Ron was once one of the top Schutzhund dogs in the country, and that's a competition that involves protection (that's where the dogs attack the guy in the padded suit), obedience, and tracking. Sounds a lot like our Marshals, right? Well... except the obedience stuff... Erichs is Ron's two year old son that's currently in training and may very well end up as awesome as his dad. So that's where Ron and Eric came from, just in case you were wondering. And they will probably show up again.

**Obligatory plea for reviews:** comments make real life seem less awful. Nothing brightens up a crappy day like my phone making that "droid" noise telling me I have new mail and then finding a review from one of you wonderful people**.  
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